


Gift of Silver

by KuraNova



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, Like salted caramel, ooey gooey marshmallow center Geralt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-25
Updated: 2016-09-25
Packaged: 2018-08-17 04:16:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8130113
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KuraNova/pseuds/KuraNova
Summary: Geralt knows the perfect gift to give Ciri on her birthday, however Dandelion thinks he can do one better.For Thedas' Most Bangable Birthday Gift Fic Exchange





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fen_Assan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fen_Assan/gifts).



**Gift of Silver**

_ for Fen _

**I** t had been a decade since the the Hunt had been driven back from the Northern Kingdoms -a decade since he’d been reunited with Yennefer and Ciri. Ten years was a long time, especially in Skellige where the seasons were long, harsh, and rife with danger and death. For most people, ten years was a lifetime, but for Geralt, it seemed to pass in the blink of an eye.

Perhaps that was why he had been so lax in ordering another blade for Ciri. 

After they had finished their business with the Hunt, the sword he had given her had been a prime weapon. It was balanced, the blade sharp, and the grip had been of supple bindings fit for the steady hand of a Witcher. While Ciri was no Witcher, she could still fight like one. The silver blade had been his gift to her, a way of showing her that she had a place with him and the Witchers despite having never suffered the Trial of the Grasses. Now, even with the careful care she had shown the weapon, it was beginning to age. 

No Witcher going out on a hunt ever began such a journey with an unreliable weapon, and Geralt had begun to fear for the blade’s soundness and Ciri’s safety. Such that he now found himself hundred of miles from home and standing against a wind-beaten parapet on the western side of Kaer Trolde. It had been a week since he’d come to Crach’s home, looking for a weaponsmith skilled enough to forge Witcher silver, and he was still waiting.

He could be patient, but the time was drawing near. Ciri’s birthday was only a few weeks away, and he still had to make the journey back to the continent.

Pushing away from the wall, Geralt began a slow perusal of the walkway. Maybe he should find another contract to get rid of some of his nervous energy. He was anxious to get going, and it wasn’t as if he didn’t need the money. He always needed money, and Skellige was full of contracts for all kinds of monsters.

He rolled his eyes as he began to pace back the way he’d come. Most of those were probably for Drowners, though - or Nekkers. Easy coin, but annoying as hell.

Geralt waited until the sun had slipped past its zenith before the blade was finished. It was a fine piece of work. It was balanced in hand, a bit light for his arm but just right for Ciri’s, and the sword had a tapered edge so fine it sung through the air as he handled it. It was an excellent weapon, and Geralt could almost imagine the excitement on her face when she saw it, unable to wait to enchant it herself.

* * *

  
  


**H** e was standing in the middle of the Rosemary & Thyme, being scrutinized from the tips of his boots to the end of his hair. Zoltan looked thoughtful, while Dandelion, of course, looked like he had something he wanted to say. Of course, that wasn’t exactly unusual for Dandelion.

“What?” he grumbled, sheathing Ciri’s blade back into its scabbard. 

Zoltan stroked his beard with his thick fingers, and answered “It’s a fine gift, Geralt. Cirilla will be pleased.”

Dandelion scoffed, an artistic snort that Geralt was used to despite how arrogant it made his friend sound. 

“A  _ sword _ ?” he finally asked.

Zoltan raised his bushy brows at the inflection in the bard’s tone, cast Geralt a sympathetic look, and wandered off to the deserted gaming tables before he found himself in the middle of one of Dandelions grandiose  _ suggestions _ . Geralt longed to go with him, but instead gave Dandelion the opportunity now to get whatever he was thinking off his chest, otherwise he might never hear the end of it. 

Geralt glanced down at the blade, still in hand, then back to Dandelion. “That’s what it is.”

Of course, despite the situation is in the past where Dandelion’s judgment had been, in a word, lacking, Geralt did value his opinion as a friend. He’d never tell Dandelion that. His head was big enough already.

The bard narrowed his gaze and put his hands obstinately on his waist to emphasize his displeasure. “You know what I meant. Look, haven't you already given Ciri a sword?”

“Years ago-”

His friend didn’t even let him finish before blazing ahead. “Well, don’t you think getting her the same thing is just a little...uninspired? Have you considered flowers? A new hat?”

Geralt merely stared at Dandelion. He considered that he hadn’t thought to get Ciri flowers, because the idea was ridiculous. She was a Witcher, if in name only, and travelled regularly. Flowers would be destroyed on a trip, and it wasn’t as if she couldn’t pick them from any field they passed if she wanted to. From his experience, Ciri didn’t seem to care one way or the other. A hat was also an absurd suggestion, but even if he thought so, perhaps Dandelion had a point. Maybe Ciri would prefer something other than a sword for her birthday. She’d always seemed pleased with his gifts in the past but now he felt a niggling hesitation. It made him irritable, and his silence stretched on long enough that Dandelion spotted his indecision and pounced on it like a nekker atop a bloated corpse.

“Listen, I’m willing to help you find a new gift for Ciri. I know my way around women, Geralt, so you should trust me when I say that when I’m through, it’ll be the best birthday she’s had yet.”

Geralt didn’t take the opportunity to set his friend straight, but followed him out of the Rosemary & Thyme when he breezed through the door with that perpetual air of self-importance. Any less showmanship, and Geralt would have been suspicious of a doppler. He moved along in the wake of Dandelion’s rare sense of purpose, and allowed himself to be led to the myriad of market stalls that the denizens of Novigrad frequented. 

He wrinkled his nose, sensitive to the scents that surrounded him as he passed through the smoke of a peat fire roasting a fat pig and drew up beside Dandelion. He’d stopped in front of a stall on which textiles were draped carelessly over the counter. They spilled in piles on the cart in the back, and his gaze was caught momentarily by a flash of bright red satin before Dandelion crowded his view. 

“Excuse me!” his friend called to the back.

The man tending the stall straightened from the cart and turned with a toothy smile and hobbled over to Dandelion, who launched into a conversation about seasonal colors and the best fabric for a fashionable hat. Geralt listened with one ear, keen on letting Dandelion have his fun while he observed the goings on in the square. 

With Radovid gone and the witch hunters disbanded, it was a much more pleasant place. There were still not many magic users or creatures around, but one by one they would return to Novigrad, and the city would probably be much as it was before the witch hunts and burnings. Triss had already come back with a few friends, of course, and she was the party responsible for bringing Ciri to the Rosemary & Thyme later the next day. 

“Geralt?”

Hearing his name, Geralt swung his golden gaze back to Dandelion.

“Haven’t you heard a thing I’ve said? Hmph,” he waved a hand to dismiss his own errant thought, “nevermind. What do you think of this fabric?”

Geralt looked down at the counter to where Dandelion was tapping his thumb against a hideous bolt of raw yellow silk. The color was putrid, like a beggar's yellowed teeth, and even if it would have looked decent on someone in this city, that someone was not Ciri. Geralt didn’t know much about fashion, if at all Yennefer would say, but he knew for certain that fabric was not something he would have picked.

“It’s ugly,” he said simply.

“Perfect!” Dandelion clapped his hands together, moustached lip twitching into a grin. “Since you’re inept at matters of fashion, I think that’s a telling observation. Besides, the color reminds me of a buttercup. A beautiful flower for a beautiful girl, don’t you think?”

Of course, Dandelion didn’t direct the question to Geralt, but to the merchant who was wise enough to agree. That was when Dandelion held out his hand toward Geralt, palm up, and quirked a questioning brow. 

“You expect me to pay for your idea?” Geralt grumbled.

“Of course, Geralt. It  _ is _ your gift.”

“I never agreed to that.”

“Nonsense. You can’t give her another sword. Not on her birthday, anyway. Save that for some...some Witcher holiday.”

When Geralt didn’t reply, Dandelion wiggled his long fingers, and he realized that he should have walked away before while he had a chance. Now he was caught between Dandelion’s persistence and the merchant’s wary gaze. It was the merchant who finally won him over because, Geralt thought, he looked a little thin, and probably had a family to feed.

Damn it.

Reluctantly, Geralt reached to the pouch tied at his hip and unfastened it to place several crowns on the counter before motioning for Dandelion to pick up the fabric. His friend did so, and the two of them began to walk away from the stand and further into the bustling epicenter of Hierarch Square.

“What are you going to do with that?” Geralt asked, dodging a group of small children careening through the throngs of people. They were heedless of their surroundings, liable to trip someone. It was annoying...and cute. “And how much will it cost?”

“At least ten crowns for the best millinery, Geralt,” Dandelion replied, weaving in and out of traffic with the skill of an individual used to the press of humanity.

“Hmph.”

* * *

 

**“T** hat  _ thing _ is an aberration. I’ve a mind to set it on fire.”

The corner of Geralt’s mouth lifted into a satisfied smirk, not because Yen was clearly blaming him for the  _ thing’s _ existence, but because he felt the exact same way. It was fortunate that Dandelion left his own fashion up to his modiste because, Geralt had realized, the bard was even less sartorially inclined than he. He would have to be, considering the puffed up, ruffled yellow monster of a hat that sat on the long wooden table before them. 

Yen continued. “How could you let this happen? I had  _ thought _ you were going to use your best judgement on this, Geralt. Not letting that fool bard handle Ciri’s gift.” She bristled, glaring at the hat. “It looks like a bloated tick.”

“Relax, Yen.” Geralt crossed his arms and hooked one ankle beneath the other as he leaned against the wall behind him. “I still have what we discussed. And you know Dandelion, once he gets going on something…” He flicked his hand, indicating some measure of his friend known to both he and Yen that couldn’t be described in words.

She huffed, but her ruffled feathers smoothed a bit as she glanced at the hilt of the silver blade sheathed at his back. “Where is yours?”

He lifted his chin toward the lip of the hearth where his own monster-slaying sword rested. Ciri would be expecting him to be carrying his own weapons, thus lending to the surprise when he revealed his gift to her.

“Clever,” Yen mused. “I’m glad you haven’t taken leave of all your senses.”

“You know me better than that,” he replied, watching the door.

Yennefer’s gaze softened markedly as she looked at him. “I do.”

A sudden hush fell over those gathered inside the Rosemary & Thyme, and a moment later Cirilla same through the door preceded by a smiling Triss. Ciri’s green eyes widened a fraction as she took them all in, and in the next breath she was grinning madly, and pulling those nearest to her into crushing hugs.

Geralt felt the barest hint of his own smile in response to her joy. He cast a subtle glance in Yennefer’s direction, heartened by the shimmer of tears in her eyes and the unguarded smile on her face. Ciri had a gift of bringing them all closer together.

A short time later after all of the greetings had been made and the food had been served, Ciri was prompted to begin opening her gifts. She treated all of them with care, a sort of misty-eyed, appreciative air about her that belied her effusive joy. It was one of the many things Geralt admired about the girl whom he regarded as his adopted daughter.

Cirilla felt so strongly at times, that it was enough for Geralt to just watch her before he was reminded of his own ability to feel. He’d long thought the Trials had robbed him of such experiences, but his time spent with Ciri and Yen continued to prove his assumptions invalid - at least in part. 

When Ciri finally reached the hat near the end of the table, Geralt couldn’t help but notice Dandelion’s prideful grin as he stood in the circle of onlookers near her. Ciri, on the other hand, seemed utterly bemused at the gift and, he noticed with a small chuckle, was trying not to grimace. Her battle was hard won, but she eventually managed a pleasant inquiry as to the gift giver’s identity.

Geralt refused to attach his name to the  _ thing _ . 

Dandelion, of course, intervened. 

“It’s from the person who knows you best, of course,” he said, “and with a little help from me, I think we settled on a style that suits you well, Ciri. Isn’t the color just enchanting?”

Ciri smiled, her eyes searching out Geralt’s in the throng. “It is that, at the very least,” she replied.

Geralt waited until she had finished with the other gifts, and until many of her well wishers had gone home for the night before he finally approached Ciri. 

“Did you like the hat?” he asked, keeping the amusement from his voice.

Ciri tried very hard not to grimace. “It was certainly unexpected. I didn’t realize you were a fan of yellow.”

He lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “Dandelion had to have his way. He didn’t like the original gift I had for you.”

“The original gift?” she asked, crossing her arms and sticking one foot out - a sign of curious impatience. “What aren’t you telling me?”

He reached behind his back and unfastened the scabbard with deft fingers as he brought it around to her. Ciri gingerly accepted the heavy weight of the sword in both hands and looked from the leather sheath to Geralt several times before she slid the blade easily from its casing.

The metal sang in response, the silver - paler than steel and sparkling in the firelight - cast reflections of light against her face and arms like tiny fairy lights. Ciri ran her fingertips over the flat surface of the sword with wonder, identifying the many locations on which she could place enchantments and runs. It was unlike anything she had ever owned before, and she appeared almost pained to lay the blade back in its sheath. The moment she reverently lay the sword down on the nearest table, she turned to Geralt with a beaming smile and jumped. 

He caught her around the waist easily as her arms wound tightly around his neck.

“Thank you!” She wiggled her feet back and forth in excitement. “Thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you!”

Geralt chuckled. “You’re welcome. It was about time you had something more suited to your style.”

“You are the  _ best _ !” she crowed, hugging him tighter. “I love you!”

Geralt would never tire of hearing those words from her. They warmed a part of him that he’d long thought beyond such heartfelt sentiments. He watched Yen over Ciri’s shoulder, and his sorceress smiled warmly at the sight of them. This was his home, his family, and he could finally admit it.

“I love you, too,” he said, then released Ciri and set her away from him. “Want to go try it out? I have a contract out on a grave hag.”

Ciri’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! When can we leave?”

Geralt  _ humphed _ with a smile. “We should probably get out of here before Yen finds out.”


End file.
